


Repos!

by amoama



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 07:34:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amoama/pseuds/amoama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Now, what,</i> Bahorel thought to himself, <i>could Jehan be quoting to himself all alone out here on the doorstep?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Repos!

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt TICKLING on my kink bingo (which I've decided is as good a way as any to get to know Les Amis). It was supposed to be kinky and about tickling but it is not. Instead it is Jehan and Bahorel on a step under the stars because that is what my first Les Mis fic wanted to be about.
> 
> Originally posted to tumblr [here.](http://amoamasy.tumblr.com/post/63864547403/timid-only-in-repose)

Jean Prouvaire, the dreamer, the one among them to contemplate the stars and meditate on profundities, was resting at the entrance to La Musain, quietly observing the comings and goings of the Rue Saint-Michel as it neared midnight. He was low to the ground, sitting on the stoop with his feet curled under him, to prevent them being tripped over by single-minded, night-blind pedestrians.

Bahorel spotted him from the other side of the street, silhouetted by the lamplight of the Café behind him.

 _Now, what,_ Bahorel thought to himself, _could Jehan be quoting to himself all alone out here on the doorstep?_ He approached in his cheerful, matter-of-fact fashion, stopping with one foot on the stoop, next to the spot where Jehan’s left hand rested. Bahorel loomed over Jehan, thinking to block out the stars and bring Jehan back down to earth.

“So?” Bahorel enquired, inviting Jehan to reveal his musings.

“Hmm?” Jehan returned, and then, with a start, “Oh, She that was full of justice, righteousness lodged in her – but now murderers.”

Jehan’s eyes are dark and full of sorrow. Bahorel understands that once again Paris herself has Jehan’s pitying heart tonight.

“You are in opposition to the claims of the law, the profession that professes progress, I see,” Bahorel protests the insinuation that justice was previously in a state from which it could decline, as if it could get any worse. He raises an eyebrow as he speaks. It’s enough provocation to get Jehan to jump to his feet.

“No more than you! Besides the law is a human institution and evolves only as we do, I’ve heard you argue that yourself. Our laws are yet to be perfected into commandments despite the examples of the past. Are you going in?” Jehan’s hands fit themselves to Bahorel’s waist and he lifts his chin up to receive a kiss. Bahorel obliges.

“Need I, or are we already disbanded? Why are you out here mourning the withering city when the rebel princes are inside?”

“It was getting too hot to think,” Is the answer. And then, “You and Isaiah do not align on the subject of rebels.” It’s a statement, but it requires an answer. 

“Nor princes,” Bahorel adds archly, his hands in Jehan’s hair. “Our rebels are righteous and our princes are princes of misrule and misappropriation only.”

Sometimes it is comforting to bring their opinions together rather than scouring each other to flare up their disparity.

Jehan is shorter and slimmer than Bahorel. He seems sometimes to belong to a separate, perhaps translucent world. Bahorel has trouble accepting him as fully substantive. He tugs at Jehan’s hair, gentle but determined to prove to himself the existence of Jean Prouvaire, the man. Jehan’s soft elegance, the way his neck extends back now, is an absolution of all Bahorel’s rough edges. He kisses Jehan’s neck, forgetting the other, less forgiving, occupants of this Parisian corner who will be watching. Jehan brings all the ages together, makes Bahorel forget that he only has this time, this present life to live.

“Let the restoration begin,” Jehan whispers, his prophetic lips tickling at Bahorel’s ear.

“The revolution, yes,” Bahorel murmers back. He feels Jehan’s smile spread against his ear lobe. It’s followed by a sharp smack to his hip and a thumb jabbing into his other side. He squirms between Jehan’s hands.

“Come on,” Jehan corrals, “Inside we go. Perhaps it’s even a little cooler by now.”

“Unlikely,” Bahorel mutters, but he’s smiling as he follows Jehan towards the room at the back of the Café.

**Author's Note:**

> (Jehan quotes Isaiah 1 v.21 and Bahorel references v.23 but I took inspiration from 21-31 as a whole.)


End file.
